


Any Which Way

by whaleofatime



Series: Third Thursdays [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Bruce Wayne Is Trying His Best, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, The rest of the family play a very small role
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23857699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaleofatime/pseuds/whaleofatime
Summary: Change is a hard thing for people to grasp, even when they’re billionaire vigilantes and reanimated pseudo-criminals.Going from parent and child to zombie-son-left-unavenged and shitty-father-figure was rough, and trying to find even ground after Bruce and Jason had been so fundamentally changed by Jason’s death had been almost impossible.But after a year of improved communication, rooftop tacos, and the foiling of a terrorist attack, they find a new normal for taking care of each other.(Now with a podfic by Vodka 112!)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Series: Third Thursdays [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923649
Comments: 50
Kudos: 223





	1. Chapter 1

Change is a hard thing for people to grasp, even when they’re billionaire vigilantes and reanimated pseudo-criminals.

Going from parent and child to zombie-son-left-unavenged and shitty-father-figure was rough, and trying to find even ground after they had both been so fundamentally changed by Jason’s death had been almost unovercomeable. 

Acknowledging the differences is key, though. Where it had been obvious to Jason that Bruce’s problem was that he couldn’t accept that Jason’s different from before, it had taken him a lot longer to figure out that he was still holding Bruce to the standards he’d held when Batman was more like a god than a distressed man desperately doing his best. 

In retrospect, he reckons that death’s actually an infectious disease. Jason got the blunt end of a crowbar and his rose-tinted glasses ripped right off his face, and Bruce came away only slightly more lightly with yet _another_ heaping of trauma, and a chronic condition wherein every day he wishes he could kill the Joker while absolutely knowing that he won’t. It’s self-enforced suffering; the Bat is ruled not by absolutes but by ‘should’s and ‘shouldn’t’s, because ‘can’ and ‘can’t’s are too thin a line for him. 

It’s been a fistful of years since Jason’s gone full-time on this Red Hood the crime lord thing, and Gotham’s calmer than she’s ever been; if he wants to have the streets crime-freeish, he just tells his underlings to work less. 

Heading a criminal empire provides a much better work-life balance than being Robin, and don’t that hit like a bullet to the head?

(Hahaha.)

It’s been a fistful of years since he woke up, and Jason thinks it’s about time that he have a sit-down with Bruce, because they really fuckin’ need to talk about change and loss. 

So he orchestrates a casual heist on a quiet night, and sits at the rooftop of the Natural History Museum with a hunk of meteorite that’s ever-so-lightly laced with Kryptonite, and waits.

It’s frigid as fuck for late April, but to be a Gothamite you sure do have to _earn_ it, and ‘it’ sometimes means sleet down the back of your neck in the middle of the night while you’re trying to meet a man. The helmet’s keeping his head dry and muggy as always, but Lord god he might need to come up with an on-brand scarf design to protect the gap between nape and jacket if the weather keeps being Like This.

Jason’s halfway through troubleshooting the concept of a leather scarf when heavy boots land dramatically on the top of the building, the quiet hiss of a grapple line disengaging in the background.

That’s a thing, too. Bruce generally errs on the side of being Creepy and Looming and a shadow creature of eldritch horror to get people to fear the Batman, but he’s all big loud moves when he’s with Jason, all shout-y and hand gesture-y and frowny. The mystique of him in full-on Bat mode disappears when Bruce strides towards him briskly like an agitated goose coming in for an attack, while his cape just drags on the floor instead of obscuring his fundamental humanity.

Bruce had made more of an effort to keep up the persona back before, tried harder to seem significantly less mortal with the cowl on. Now he’s just all human all the time around him, and Jason sees that Bruce is _always_ bleeding out, only sometimes literally.

“Hey, B,” he calls out, though his helmet probably glows like a beacon to where he’s sat on the water tank.

“Red Hood,” Bruce growls out, too professional to use real names, but too worked-up to not be angry. “Why are you stealing Kryptonite? If this is a plot against Superman, I have no choice but to-”

Ain’t that a joke and a half. “No choice but to do what, B? For the guy calling all the shots all the time, you’re talking some pretty amazing shit.”

At that Bruce doesn’t snap back, turning this way and that instead to do a sweep of the roof before he seems satisfied. “Hood, if this is a plea for attention-”

“Ding ding ding,” Jason says as he unlocks his helmet and takes it off, groaning a little when the light drizzle hits his overheated scalp. “Got half of it in one. I’m not pleading for your attention, B, but I am going to get it. We’re going to talk.”

It’s a new technique, just for today. Usually, any interaction between them turns into a clash; somebody lashes out and the other hits back, and fifteen minutes later either somebody’s bloody or they’ve stormed dramatically off the side of a building.

Today, Jason’s going to pull a Batman ( _Thou shalt not steal (the tyres off the Batmobile), Thou shalt not kill (the Joker)_ ) and put down lines in the sand, make this a lawful argument instead of a raging one. 

Getting pissed on by freezing April showers, Jason’s feeling unusually benevolent. It makes him want to laugh, a little, that Bruce has the time and the luxury to be angry with him on a rooftop right now because that’s what Jason _wanted_ to do tonight. 

It seems to work, though. Bruce is quiet for the longest time, before he comes closer, clearly wary. “So talk.”

“Much as though I love looking down on you, old man, calm yourself down and just come sit with me. You know as well as me that this place’s in a blindspot, so get up here already.”

Another line, another non-request. Jason expects that he’s going to have to wear Bruce down with this, but instead there’s the quiet _boom!_ of the grapple going off, and in six and a half seconds flat, he’s got a seatmate.

Facing the same way, they have as good of a view as you can get of Gotham; the museum’s on a hill close to the bay, and from here you can make out the city lights and the barest outlines of buildings through the mist and rain. Even the looming hills that cocoon the city and contribute hugely to the awful weather and spectacular air pollution are visible, if you squint.

Absently, Jason notes that this is the longest they’ve gone in a while without either of them shouting, even if Bruce is radiating enough tension to heat up a house. 

“So,” Jason starts them off, because he should expect no help from the dumbass next to him, “you know that I, like, died, right, B?”

The sharp intake of breath is like a reflex at this point; if Jason ever wants to get a punch in all he needs to do is look Bruce in the eye and remind him of Jason’s death and _bam_! An opening right there.

That’s not the point tonight, though. Not quite.

He keeps going before Bruce can interrupt. “I know you know I did, B. I know you blame yourself for it, and you blame me for being angry you didn’t kill Joker, and then you go back to blaming yourself for not actually killing the fucker anyways. You’re all twisted up inside, and you probably always have been, and I guess the thing is I kinda only noticed that recently.”

So recently, he realised it mid-conversation. Wow.

“If you only wanted me to come so that you can berate me, Hood, I have better things to do,” Bruce says, terse and hideously impersonal.

Jesus, he’s bleeding out right now.

Jason nudges him in the side, but mostly just bruises his elbow on kevlar and leather. “It’s not about that. If I was berating you, I would be real fucking clear about it. I just need you to get through your thick skull, that the boy you took in and did your best to kinda take care of, he died and you mourned him and you’re still mourning him, and that’s _fine_ .” It isn’t, not really, because Jason wants Bruce to mourn _him_ , but that’s just a whole ‘nother kettle of fucking fish, really. “He died, and I came ‘round in his place, and we’re not the same people. Death really changes a man, you know, and I’m _not_ your son anymore. I made my peace with that.” Sort of. -ish. Enough to function, enough to know they need this conversation.

He turns to look at Bruce, right at the eery white lenses. “The question is,” he says with a heaviness he doesn’t usually like to show, “have you?”

Lenses can’t blink, obviously, but Jason’s looked at and thought about this man long enough and often enough that he knows what’s going on even when Bruce’s face is obscured.

It’s a stare-off that Bruce somehow loses. He looks away, jaw still clenched tight. Jason can see the muscles twitching there, can almost hear the grinding. If he closes his eyes he can even imagine the little purple case and the clear night guard that Bruce has on the counter in his bathroom. 

He wonders if the case is still covered in the stickers that first Dick, and then he himself had covered it in. He wonders if the tradition continued with the newer Robins, and if the guard and the case is still there, or if Bruce in his unwinding madness had just, god, laser-cut his teeth so that they wouldn’t touch or something.

Bruce’s answer is a long time coming, but it does come, eventually. “No,” Bruce tells him like it’s truth taken through torture. “No, I haven’t.” 

(It is, truth taken through torture).

Any admission of weakness was well beyond anything Jason expected, and while his first inclination is to take that given inch and make it a vicious mile, to mock the absolute _hell_ out of Bruce, he doesn’t.

Instead, he finds himself scooting over closer, close enough that their shoulders are touching. Bruce flinches, and Jason ignores the tell of discomfort.

“That’s all right,” Jason tells him, mostly meaning it. “He died for me too, you know. So at least this time, B, you got a mourning buddy.”

They sit in silence for a long, long time, until Batman’s communicator goes off and the spell’s broken. Bruce doesn’t say anything after the transmission’s fed right into his ear, just leaps off the water tank and lands on cat-quiet feet on the roof.

It’s as clear a sign as anything that their potential bonding’s come to an end, and Jason’s resigned to going back to his ratty apartment and rage-eating some cold pizza. 

Instead of leaping right into action, though, Bruce turns and looks up at him. He holds up his hand, and it’s the stupid chunk of greenish rock. Jason rolls his eyes, but can’t help breaking into a grin. How a man so big and imposing got around to having such sticky fingers is pretty impressive.

“Thank you, Jason.”

It’s the first time tonight Bruce has actually called him by his name, and it’s such a wholesale fucking miracle that Jason is actually left speechless as Batman smirks, turns on his heel so that his cape snaps out dramatically, and disappears.

-

They meet up semi-often, after that. Jason sent out a company-wide memo; every third Thursday, everybody just stay the fuck at home. Anybody found breaking the order gets to have some personal one-on-one time with Jason and his favourite toy for the week, and about two months after that first meeting, Gotham’s taken to scheduling their outdoor celebrations and festivities to take advantage of the periodic significant decrease in shit like gun violence and kidnappings. 

Jason’s got no complaints; it means that whatever rooftop they end up on, they get a view of lanterns and glossy food-trucks, loud music booming up to the rafters even though it’s the middle of the workweek. There’s a taquería-on-wheels that usually sets up shop on the corner of King and 18th, and Jason’s made it his mission in life to make a pilgrimage to it every haloed Thursday to get half a dozen pulled pork tacos. He does it partly because they literally are the best tacos he’s ever had in his life, and also partly because if it’s the matriarch María José at the cashier she will inevitably pinch his cheeks, call him handsome, and give him a glass of rice milk on the house so’s that he can grow some more.

Three months into this, whatever the hell this is, and a whole two tacos regularly go to Bruce, despite the fact that Bruce always comes by with food from whichever truck he buys out that night, a takeaway bag for them and the rest sent to the charitable organisation _du jour_.

Jason feels a weird sense of satisfaction in _providing_ , though, so he always says he’ll bring home whatever Bruce’s brought to eat later, and instead has them share his tacos and drink and whatever corner store trash takes his fancy on the day. Trying to get Bruce to just go with the damned flow is a lot like trying to socialise the world’s most paranoid cat, and the first time that comparison occurred to him Jason had laughed to himself because he thought it was hilarious.

It came in a little later that cats that are paranoid and wary of people usually have a damn good reason for being so, and if that ain’t just the world’s most relatable shit….

The meeting after that realisation Jason had splurged on _two_ horchatas as well as some churros, and when María José had asked if it was for a date, he had said _of course not, ma’am, I’ve still got my eye on you_ , but in his head he thought _Jesus, maybe_.

By the fifth time they meet for what amounts to late-night snacks and aching chats, Jason notices and works very hard not to mention that Bruce has foregone the heavily-armoured suit that he usually wears on patrol, and is instead in the Batsuit Lite™, the version he would keep in his office for quick costume changes but couldn’t take a bullet half so well.

The actual Gotham Bat is literally lowering his guard around him, and Jason feels so goddamned all-powerful that he almost wants to send out another memo to say that all crime is all cancelled now, thanks, just so that dinner and drinks with a Bruce who is slowly but surely coming to terms with Jason being his own man can happen more often.

It never sat quite right with him to be provided for, he learns over the course of these dinners. Call it the result of a rough upbringing, call it a trick of the mind, but Jason’s never felt so settled in his skin as when Bruce is sat with him on a night that Jason finagled to be calm enough for the Bat to get time off, eating food that Jason bought for him, dressed as casually as the Bat can because Jason was there to guarantee his safety. 

He never really knew what to do with the lavish life Bruce gave to him, before.

He’s beginning to think he has an idea about what he wants to give to Bruce, now.

-

There’s nothing unusually worldly about Jason’s porn preferences. It’s a secret he’ll take to his second grave, but he has a paid subscription to one of those tasteful for-women pornsites because some nights he and his right hand just want to watch people be kinda sweet to one another, you know? He’s surveyed the length and breadth of what the Internet can offer, doesn’t have any use for the ones where people aren’t having a good time, likes actual orgasms both behind and in front of the screen, and has a good grasp of the kinks that make him tick.

It’s not even sexual, this thing with Bruce. Sortof. It’s _literally_ not sexual to sometimes go as backup with Bruce on cases so wretched they would make even Dick blanch and get queasy, or to share intel he got through nefarious means, or to avoid a kill shot when he can go around after and put the fear of the Red Hood into a perp and a bullet into their kneecap instead. It’s intimacy, yeah, to pick up a phone that rings at 4 o’clock in the morning whenever the usual cocktail of screaming horrors in Bruce’s head becomes literally unbearable and he just needs to hear that Jason’s alive still, tonight.

It’s a sign that he can be there to support Bruce, when he went with the man to his grave next to the Waynes, to just say hello and thank you and goodbye.

It’s not sexual, but close to a year into this, they’re both better off and better people. It started small and it grew big, and Jason just wants to give Bruce even more, make him _take_ it, and more importantly, make him _enjoy_ it. 

They’re perched on some gargoyles for old times’ sake tonight, and far, far beneath their feet thousands of Gothamites are out on the streets. Jason’s lost track of the number of new celebrations that have cropped up, timed to meet the regular lull in crime, but tonight’s thing has lots of live bands, and lots of people dancing in the streets, swigging beer from plastic cups as they loosen their ties and kick off their heels and gently groove their way to train stations. 

Loud block parties in the city centre on a Thursday are so on-brand for Gotham; it inconveniences absolutely everyone, but also if anyone tried to make them stop they would be mobbed. On any given day there’s no telling if Jason loves the people here or wants to beat them into the ground.

The same can be said about Bruce, as though there’s anything more through-and-through Gotham than the Bat and the man. The night’s been pretty chill, a little on the quiet side, but Jason thinks he’s about to change that. He’s going to draw another line between them tonight, but this one he wants Bruce to actually cross.

Plus, who would’ve known? Unwind the Bat enough and Bruce ends up being pretty decent company. He had a deep well of deeply entertaining bitchiness that was usually smothered under the facade of superheroism, he listened to hostage demands and a casual recap of the latest episode of Love Is Blind with the same amount of near-angry focus, and had a powerful implicit bias for anyone he cared about. Jason’s still in that category, somehow, and that was another group lesson; Jason’s a different man but actually, at the same time, maybe not.

God, identity politics are a riot when you throw adoption and death into the mix.

Nevertheless, Jason’s at the end of his tether. Getting laid’s not got the same kick to it, and sometimes mid-fuck he’s thinking about checking to see if tangerines are in season because if he scores a tempting enough bag of fruit the gauntlets come the fuck off to facilitate the peeling of the skin.

It’s the surest sign possible that this madness has sunk right down into his literal bones; Jason’s speaking from experience, and Bruce drives people all sorts of crazy even at the best of times, so he’s probably been screwed since that day on the water tank when Bruce said “Thank you, Jason”.

And now he’s really just going to say to his former-father-figure some version of _not only do I seriously want to fuck you, I want to hold you by the neck to make you be good for me, and then I’ll praise you for just how damn good you can be_. Lately it’s starting to feel like the highest calling he’s ever gotten, to make Bruce submit and then aggressively reward him for it.

He waits until they’ve worked their way to the bottom of the tray of nachos, after he’s handed a pack of wet wipes over so Bruce can fastidiously clean his gloves off of neon-orange cheese sauce. Not only is he now the kind of man to go around with wet wipes in his pocket, they’re even the fancy biodegradable ones because B had tutted at him the last time he suggested just tossing a regular one on some shitty roof somewhere.

They’ve probably got a maximum of ten minutes or so before Bruce will get up and go perch on a stoop somewhere he can keep an eye on crime and Gothamites having a genuinely good night out, and Jason knows that that isn’t time he can or wants to intrude on, so if he wants to confess, he’s going to need to do it soon. 

“B, you know how we’ve been getting along well, lately?” Innocuous, a softball, good start, Jay.

Bruce tenses a little, but he’s not ramrod straight and his lenses are still down as he turns to look at Jason with a piercing look. “What’s this about?”

“You know how months and months ago, I said we needed to talk ‘bout me, and I was right? Well. I’m bringing it up because I think we need to talk about me again.”

Instantly Bruce is on red alert, feet curled under him till he’s wound up like a fight on spring-loaded legs, and he’s looking around with the night-vision lenses up. “What’s wrong, Red Hood?” he asks, ready to leap into the middle of whatever it is that’s got Jason all agitated.

That’s not what he was aiming for, having Bruce get his back up, even if it’s in a show of needless sweet overprotectiveness. Actively winging it at this point, Jason reaches over and holds the approximate nape of Bruce’s neck, even if all his hand meets is vacu-formed reinforced kevlar. It’s what Bruce used to do when he was trying to calm one of them down, and the theory is that the thought of it transmits even if it’s not skin to skin. “Calm down, B, it’s alright. I’m alright. I just want to lay out some things on the table, okay, and I need to know what you think about them.”

Bruce doesn’t smack his hand off, even though he’s clearly disgruntled as he settles down a little, loosening his fists. “When have you ever wanted my opinion on anything?” It comes off harsh, but there’s no point getting angry over a statement of fact, is there?

It’s a fair question, after all. “All the time, B,” Jason says, honest as he can manage. “Sometimes, sure, it’s so that I know exactly what not to do. But c’mon, give me some credit. This whole reconciliation thing is working _because_ I needed you to know what goes on under the Red Hood, and along the way I figured, hey, why not try and understand you under all those layers of trauma and self-loathing and machismo too, you know?”

The sound Bruce makes sounds like a growl, but everything does with a modulator. Jason knows enough to know a snort of amusement when he hears one. “Yes, that is me, an extremely manly man. Spit it out already, Hood. What do you need me to hear?”

“Hey, c’mon, you’re telling me you didn’t used to make us run around in sequined shorts and pixie boots ‘cos you wanted to look scary and macho by comparison?”

The lenses disappear, because Bruce is _so_ dramatic sometimes, and he wanted to properly convey his aghast. “Robin chose the entire outfit by himself. My initial designs were based on my suit, and he refused all of them. He didn’t even want full-length sequined pants. When you came along, I just went with his choices. It’s beyond the scope of my abilities to understand the fashion preferences of youths.” Bruce glares at him. “And you didn’t complain about it once.”

Jason rolls his eyes, and tries not to feel giddy about Bruce relaxing into his touch, how close together they’ve gotten as they talk absolute shit. “One, you should have known by then that his fashion choices literally only make sense to him. Two, I wasn’t gonna turn down free clothes. Three, on God, please tell me that you still have sparkly leggings kicking around in the Cave, because Nightwing’s really due a makeover.”

If they had glossy green beads that clattered loudly with movement, Jason could die happy for the first time. 

“Stop getting distracted,” Bruce says mildly. “Nightwing is always welcome to my facilities if he wants to update his costume, and PennyOne dreams of one day being asked for input. Jaybird,” Bruce grabs hold of Jason’s arm, squeezes gently. “Do you need help?”

God, he can’t stop the slightly manic laughter from bursting right through him. “It’s more of a B thing than a Bat thing, okay? And you can tell me yes, and you can tell me no, and they’re both okay. Third Thursday Tacos are gonna keep happening, bimonthly visits home are gonna keep happening, but there’s this thing that, uh.” Fuck, words are hard. He should have just texted instead, but Jason can already see his unbearable desire to drop an eggplant into a DM to make light of a weird, heavy situation, so.

Just shut up and say it already. “There’s something that I want from and for you. You’re probably going to take it badly, which is fine, but I need you to take it seriously. Okay?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, just nods, rubbing his thumb against Jason’s arm.

“I love you,” Jason just goes for it, starts with the most fundamental of truths. “I want to smash you to pieces sometimes but I also literally, actually love you, in a whole bunch of really, really confusing ways. The thing is that one of those ways has me wanting to take you to bed, B, make you submit so you can be good for me and I can be good to you. So what I’m asking is, do I have your permission to try and get you to where I want you to be, B?”

The initial reaction will probably go one of two ways; complete stillness as Bruce digests the information and tries to parse his way through it, or a burst of action, probably a dramatic escape into the dark like Dracula’s the maiden who’s feeling a bit shy.

What Jason gets is neither; what he gets is Bruce’s mouth moving before his brain has come fully online, defensive and reactionary. “Jason! You can’t be serious-”

He’s not having any of that. With the hand on the back of Bruce’s neck he shakes the man a little, breaking him off. “I am, B.” He takes a breath, takes a chance, presses their foreheads together, human(?) skin to lead-lined cowl. “You can say yes and you can say no, hell, you can even say fuck off, but you _cannot_ tell me what I do and don’t want. Christ, if you learned anything about me this past year, please let it be that I’m not a child, and you don’t get to dictate shit to me.”

They stay locked in a staring contest for what felt like ages, even as the boisterous sounds of a brass section going absolutely ham for 9 PM on a Thursday floats up on drafts to them. When the break happens, it’s not with Bruce forcibly jerking away and screaming at him, as Jason mostly expected.

Bruce pulls away lightly, like he’s testing the hold Jason has on him, like he’s testing Jason.

Jason lets him go immediately, of fucking course. He doesn’t even register that Bruce might be looking for a reaction; barring crime or injury, he’s not going to keep anyone where they don't want to be. Hell, part of being an Outlaw was the absolute unwillingness to be held down.

Plus, Bruce’s consent was the most important thing here. Jason figures that between the trauma and the jumble of unhealthy coping mechanisms that make up the man who’s thrown himself at the cancer of Gotham for decades, Bruce probably doesn’t get to make decisions just out of easy, selfish desires very often.

That’s why lunches and dinners would continue no matter Bruce’s answer, that’s why Third Thursdays were going to keep being a thing. Jason doesn’t want this to be a noose around Bruce’s neck, an obligation, a duty he needs to step up to for Jason. 

He lets go, because he wants Bruce to want him more than he wants Bruce to listen to him.

They’re at a standoff, but not really. Jason keeps his hands up and visible, leans out of Bruce’s space, doesn’t talk or plead or cajole, just sits on his spiky gargoyle and stares at Bruce.

(God, even the concept of giving Bruce the option to say no satisfies that odd little kink inside of him.)

“I’m going to go,” Bruce says at long last, getting to his feet with a bit of a wobble, like he’s drunk, or like he recently got propositioned by a former-son at the end of an ambiguous dinner date. “On patrol. I’m sure you have things to do, Red Hood.”

Ah, back to full-on codenames it is, huh. This has still gone about a thousand times better than Jason’s most feverish and optimistic projections, though, so he doesn’t take it to heart. He doesn’t get up, gives Bruce the high ground as he smiles lazily up at him. “Oh, you know me. Ain’t no party like a Red Hood party. You gonna be okay on patrol?”

Bruce nods, head jerking like a marionette handled by a very bad intern. “Take care of yourself,” he says, then pauses. Grits his teeth, takes a breath. And then, with barely-there hesitation, “I’ll see you next Third Thursday.”

It’s not phrased like a question, but it definitely is. Jason just salutes sloppily instead of needling Bruce further on the meaning behind the hesitation. “‘Course, old man. Whatever you want.” And just to hammer his point further, “Whatever you choose.”

He sees it land like a body blow, and sees Bruce recover from it twice as quick. A brusque nod, and Bruce disappears into the streets below, a slab of black blocking the citizens from view.

Now left without an audience, Jason topples onto his back, and lets out an explosive sigh.

So.

That wasn’t a no, was it?

He screams at the sky, and a flock of roosting pigeons take off in a startled hurry.

God fucking bless Third Thursdays, holy shit.

-

Their next couple of Third Thursdays are stilted, but Jason’s willing to put in the effort because while it absolutely sucks to keep going like his confession never happened, he knows how Bruce’s jumbled-up brain works. If they haven’t sat down to have a wholly shitty conversation on how they’re father-and-son, Jason’s just confused, it’s some sort of transference of affection, and he should be finding a nice young someone his own age, then it means that Bruce is still processing. Bruce, after all, prefers to have clear lines drawn between himself and others, for maximum ease in warding off distraction and danger.

If Bruce was completely disinterested, the talk would have come in hard and swift, and there probably would’ve been a lot of screaming. Instead Bruce keeps showing up to TT, if in slightly heavier armour than usual, and Jason can _see_ that he’s more aware of Jason, in full-on observation mode even as he talks about his latest case or any breakthroughs in figuring out who in the hell keeps stealing the good coffee beans from the Watchtower. 

It’s progress that’s likely only possible because of how hard they’ve both tried to be better to each other over the past year, and Jason’s pretty sure at this point that when the rejection comes, as long as B’s happy to keep accepting stuff from Jason, they’re going to be alright.

It’s a pretty nice dream.

Things feel rough and uncertain but good on the whole, until it all goes to shit when it’s another Third Thursday and Bruce doesn’t show up on the rooftop of the Opera House. Crime never sleeps, even if it tends to take a nap at Jason’s demand, but B’s conscientious enough to usually text if something came up and he couldn’t come. Once while abducted by Harley and Pam for their weird bi-annual bitchfest, hopped up on Ivy pollen that she swore was a fantastic muscle relaxant and giving Harley his fifteenth bi-annual lecture on how she was far, far too good for Joker, he had even sent a selfie of them all sprawled on a banquette in an abandoned building somewhere with a sad emoji in explanation.

Today, there’s nothing to mark his absence except for his actual absence. Jason sits on edge of the roof and ignores the prickle of unease on the back of his neck. B is a whole adult who’s been roaming these streets doing what he can for literal decades; yes, it’s entirely unlike him to leave someone hanging, yes, it’s the first time he’s gone missing without sending word, yes, something about this stinks, but he could just be running a little late.

God, it’s amazing how optimism can get you at the most inopportune times.

Jason finally cracks, gets his helmet back on to ring the Manor to check in _just in case_ , when the emergency alert trill nearly bursts his eardrum. It’s ingrained into every single person who’s ever worked with the Bat; Jason remembers as a kid seeing Commissioner Gordon startle so hard he dropped coffee on himself when somebody’s phone had gone off with a vaguely similar pitch.

It incites a Pavlovian response; Jason’s already up and running to gain altitude for a better sightline before the alert winds down, and he’s pulling himself up by an angel’s wings by the time Alfred’s voice comes on.

“Good evening, all,” Alfred says, polite even as he sounds incredibly strained. “We have a mass casualty situation. Bane appears to have taken advantage of Third Thursdays, and is in the process of blocking off Cathedral Square; we have reason to believe he intends to set all the revelers there on fire, so I would appreciate any support in evacuating people. Batman has gone after Bane himself, and I have lost contact.” He then rattles off the roads that have been blocked and how best to maneuver around them to get people out, but Jason’s already off and running.

Red alerts aren’t a fun time to be a crimefighter, but there’s a sense of solidarity in knowing that he’s not the only one leaping across rooftops to get to it. For all that Bruce tends to irritatingly emphasise how much he prefers working alone, the network he’s inadvertently set up of people who both love him and would go too far for him is a solid one. He can almost imagine the convergence; Dick coming up from the south, Damian probably rushing in from the Manor to the north, Tim legging it from the east because it stylistically fits with Jason bolting towards the square from the west.

That’s not even counting the girls. Christ, nights like these you couldn’t look up without seeing a terrifying phantasm flying across the sky. 

Jason comes up to the main thoroughfare leading to the square first; it’s barely a ten-minute parkour sprint from the Opera House, after all, and he’s still falling when he shoots down a handful of Bane’s goons who have set up a barricade blocking people from leaving.

His timing’s gorgeous; they haven’t lit anyone on fire yet, and while a lot of the civilians are screaming at him and the downed men, that core of Gotham steel shines on through as women in neat dresses and men in business slacks slosh through a bit of blood to help him tear down concrete blocks to make enough space for them to wriggle through. Some sort of concert had been planned for Cathedral Square, and there’s enough panicked people that a few dozen climbing out quietly wouldn’t rouse much attention.

Urgh, a massive shiny red full-face helmet is pretty eye-catching for this, but with this many people around Jason can’t exactly take it off and hope to blend into the crowd as he goes hunting. He snags an absolutely loathsome fedora off the top of a loathsome-looking man, and rams it onto his helmet. Jason hopes no one will be around to take a picture of this indignity, but as long as he slouches, he’s not an obvious target from afar, and this is as good as it’s going to get for now.

A wave of whispers emanate from his makeshift exit, everyone letting the person next to them know before they disappear away, and it’s deeply inefficient as a manner of escape but Jason’s got to hold back from large-scale destruction until he can figure out how Bane planned to set all these people on fire. No point saving everyone close to this exit and having everyone else die because he tripped a trigger. 

Look at him, he’s so goddamn tactical.

As he stoops and slouches and slinks in the shadows to get to the next inlet that he can crack open enough to let people escape, people seem to understand what he’s there for, and some even seem eager to contribute to his disguise.

He drew the line at a young woman whispering to him that she had some foundation in her bag and it could stick to anything, honest to God, do you want me to make your disguise more flesh-toned, Mister Red Hood?

He did accept her very pretty scarf that is much nicer than a douchey fedora. Some incomprehensible out-of-towner handed him earmuffs, even though the last time it snowed in Gotham was last week and the locals were already starting to move into summerwear, but it’s the thought that counts. He takes out three more goons close to a tiny side-alley that would lead out to a main street, has someone donate a wig right off of their heads, and when he takes out the mini-squadron protecting the back of the Gotham Central Library and its massive double-doors, he gets an oversized wooly cardigan and what looks like a faux-fur stole draped over him without his permission.

Jason can’t look at himself, of course, but he suspects at this point he probably wouldn’t be mistaken for the Red Hood until somebody was literally maybe four inches away from him. Through it all, though, he still doesn’t see where Bane’s secreted the equipment for mass murder. Hell, even the barricades weren’t difficult to disassemble enough to let people sneak out. He can imagine batty figures high up on the roofs of all the august buildings that butt up to the square running life-saving errands, but Alfred’s regular updates make it clear that everyone’s drawing a blank as to where the weapons actually are. Priority is on getting everyone out without causing enough of a stir that the bulk of Bane’s men up by the stage notice something and start opening fire, but everything feels a couple of inches off centre, and Jason can’t help the feeling of wrongness.

“Hey, PennyOne. What’s the update on B?”

Here Alfred’s smooth delivery of information stutters a little. “Still no contact from him, I’m afraid. Does anyone have eyes on Batman?”

Nobody does, and nobody can see Bane either. Given that Bane on his best day is a spine-snapping motherfucker, Jason’s not exactly happy with current events. Holding the wig tightly to his head, Jason abandons the plan of liberating the next passageway along, and heads straight towards the stage. Staging a large-scale attack is the best way to get Batman to come after you quickly, and if you’re dramatic enough, he’ll get there before he waits for back-up, because not even years of suffering have taught Bruce that he’s not solely responsible for every miserable thing that happens in Gotham.

Do it on a Third Thursday, and if you’ve been watching closely you might know that the Bat’ll come for you with less kit than usual. You might not catch him unawares because a soft British voice is always in his head, but you might find him significantly more vulnerable than literally any other night.

Jason tries not to scream, because he’s already dressed like a walking sartorial nightmare who’s a solid 5’11 even hunched over, and he doesn’t need to contribute further to anybody’s trauma. That’s one of the things that B always used to harp on; don’t get into a routine, don’t become predictable, never allow yourself to get comfortable while on duty.

All Jason had wanted was to make things a little easier, a little more pleasant for Bruce, and this is how karma decides to show him up. After all these years, how is he still surprised that fate is a whole-ass bitch? God literal damn.

All wrapped up in 8 different people’s outfits and a strong sense of self-loathing, Jason draws to a halt close to the stagefront, and surveys the henchmen there. A litle over a dozen or so, armed to the teeth because Bane has an aesthetic that he keeps close to, and all wearing that bored-and-disengaged haze in their eyes. It’s not a definite thing, but it sure would imply that Bane’s not asked them to do anything more intense than appear menacing and keep people in the square. That’s another strike against the big-time arson theory, but Jason takes note of how more than half of them are clustered around the backstage tent. Something important is clearly being kept there, and Bane’s got a less clear cut MO than most of the rogues’ gallery. Jason’s first thought is that it must be munitions, because Bane sure does love him some straight-up physical violence, but when Alfred’s voice starts to stutter and fade in and out, things connect together like the final jigsaw piece finally saw the light.

There’s a signal jammer, it’s got to be some sort of powerful signal jammer, and if Alfred can’t trace Bruce’s location or get in touch with him, then Bruce must be close by. Jason surreptitiously looks around for a Bat or a Bird that could double up with him to storm the tents, but maybe they’re too civic-minded to abandon the cause of evacuating civilians, because Jason’s reading the pattern and whirls of people movement and can’t spot anyone sneaking towards the front.

It makes sense to get people out of the way first before lunging into the heart of a battle: less collateral, it’ll just be bad men versus bat men (and women). Jason’s really only here because he believes in the average Gothamite’s ability to worm their way out of trouble given a little helping hand, and something about Bruce’s absence sits so badly with him that it’s unbearable. 

The thought, when it finally hits, smashes into him like a bat to the back of the head. No clear signs of weapons to be used on a huge number of people, elite guards that don’t look too interested in guarding, no alarm being raised that dozens of henchmen have been felled at various checkpoints, comms jammer.

Jesus. Bane wants them to wear themselves out spiriting away innocents, be unable to communicate and coordinate, and have all of them herd themselves closer to whatever the hell else he’s got stored in the white tent. Minimum civilian casualty, but it’s a surefire way to take a sizable chunk of the vigilante community out in one night. 

In a high panic, it’s not a terrible plan; all of their training always, always puts priority on saving the vulnerable, and with all hands on deck a full-frontal assault would favour the team that has more experience working together in creative and terrifying ways. It’s also enormously flawed, because while Dick might be the type to vault off a cornice and tuck-and-roll into a perfect landing on stage to demand a fair fight, there are also enough sufficiently suspicious bastards in their little pack that someone will inexplicably go off on their own and inadvertently execute a pincer attack.

No, if you want everyone to come together quickly and mindlessly, you’d need more motivation than a dozen gunmen. Hostages are a good idea, but even Red Robin can disarm someone with breathtaking accuracy given one batarang and about a hundred paces, so that’s also not guaranteed.

No, no, if you _really_ want all of them to converge at the speed of instinct, you take a hostage, and the hostage just has to be B-

Oh, man. Oh man, oh man, he’s going to need to put down Bane, he swears he will, after this.

Jason’s first thought is to do away with the subterfuge and just go in all guns a-blazing, tear the tent to pieces to find Bruce and whatever Bane’s plan is all in one go. Jason’s read on the situation isn’t 100% guaranteed to be right, but the pieces all fit, and among the things you pick up during an apprenticeship with the world’s greatest detective is the skill to believe your hindbrain when it makes connections too smart for the rest of you.

He could take out 4 men easily from where he is; he probably wouldn’t be found out until he breaks cover to take out the other two patrolling on stage, and then it’ll be open-season with the rest of the men hovering by the white tent. He could take them, Jason’s pretty sure. He _wants_ to take them, is the thing.

A thought is the only thing that stays his hand; it’s the memory of Bruce’s gentle grip on his arm, the night of his confession. It’s the serious face and the serious voice asking him, “Do you need help?”

Right now, Jason wants to say no, he doesn’t, he’s more than able to tackle this alone. It’s even the Batman-y thing to do, to take everything on by himself, but….

Ah, fuck. It’s the Batman thing to do, but Jason’s going to end up being a hypocritical son of a bitch if he’s angling to get Bruce to open up and accept that he should listen to other people sometimes when he refuses to do it himself. Jason feels a headache coming on; Bruce had taken on a heavy, weird confession about feelings and desires that even Jason hasn’t figured out the extent of.

Jason can at least take his head out of his ass, back down from a one-man Rambo show, and do this right.

It takes an effort of will to pivot on his heel and sneak back further afield until he’s free of the jammer and can communicate what he’s found out and what he’s inferred; Jason spends the entirety of their planning phase feeling a little irritated that Bruce has somehow made Jason actually cooperative and team-spirited without ever saying a word about it. 

The bastard better appreciate the lengths Jason is willing to go to just to keep him safe, fuck.

-

It comes to a head with a flaccid little _whump_. Under the combined forces of the assembled and very angry Bat family, Bane’s operation is taken out at the knees. Tim and Babs jam the jammer, Cass and Damian handle the armed guards near the front, Steph and Dick demolish the biggest barricades to let the remaining crowd of thousands leg it to safety, and Jason bumrushes the tent because they’d all come to a quick consensus that if Bane’s pulled any sort of back-breaking bullshit, the definition of ‘unnecessary force’ is going to get a bit hazy for everyone involved so long as 1. Bruce never finds out, and 2. Jason tries to stop before actual death. The rest of the group will be along as soon as they’ve done their part, but Jason gets to lead the charge.

He rolls in with most of his costume still intact, because Tim and Dick have already taken a combined 300 pictures of him in his full Gotham Look and he has become unable to feel shame. Instead of a bitter fight to the almost-death, though, he finds Bruce lying on an operating table, and Bane crumpled in a heap on the floor, desiccated and unconscious.

“Uhm.” This isn’t _exactly_ what he’d signed up for.

The sound of his confusion rouses a response from Bruce, a slight clench and unclenching of his fists. Jason’s by his side in seconds, feet slipping and sliding a little in the leaking Venom. He nudges Bane a little further away from the metal table with his foot, and feels proud of himself for not breaking a nose under his heel instead. 

Priorities, priorities. He looks down at Bruce’s prone form, and breathes a little easier to see the cowl still intact. Bruce’s eyes are open, but they’re hazy and unfocused. Jason checks his pulse, and ignores the little signs of numerous brutalities that Bruce has endured just from tonight in the Batsuit Lite ™, fuck, it isn’t even the Batsuit Mild ™ that has been the go-to armour the past few Third Thursdays.

“You with us, big guy? The rest of the gang’s going to roll in in a sec,” Jason tells B with forced levity, even as his hands start assessing the damage and addressing the myriad tiny cuts and bruises before he moves on to the more serious hurts.

Bruce blinks like it takes all his energy, and then smiles. “Glad. Came with….. gang,” he forces out through a bruised throat.

“All your harping about togetherness finally got through to me, I guess.” Jason pulls off his scarf and breaks a donated pair of sunglasses to fashion mini-splints for two fingers on Bruce’s left hand. He can’t do anything about the wrist right now except for basic compression, and he is _not_ going to think about how the actual patrol suit could have prevented a lot of this damage. “Mind telling me how you took down Mister Big Bad over here? To be honest, I was looking forward to mounting a hell of a cool rescue.”

“Cool enough.” The noise Bruce makes is half a laugh and half a wheeze from injured ribs. “Bane wanted to lure…. All of you. Kill in front of me.” A deep, shaky breath. “Nicked pipe with batarang….. Mid-gloat.” A derisive snort. “Not even…..titanium-plated.”

It’s beneath Bruce to say dumbass, but the implication is pretty damn clear. Jason just laughs. “Don’t give him any ideas, B.” He’s stabilised Bruce to the best of his abilities, and decides that he’d rather Bruce get some medical attention as quickly as he can manage it. He pulls Bruce to sit up, and gives him time for the motion blur to settle. “I know you’re drugged up, but is it anything to be worried about?”

He’s greeted with the littlest shake of the head. “Just standard HS-342. Excuse me.” With surprising speed for a man so thoroughly out of it, Bruce leans over the other side of the table and throws up. When he sits back up, he seems more present. “It isn’t Bane’s usual style to try poisons, and this suit’s filter isn’t the best, so he took me by surprise when I cornered him here.” Bruce rubs at his mouth with a bloodied hand, and he makes everything look about 200 times worse.

Jason’s offering a wet wipe before his brain even digests the sight; Bruce just accepts it without comment, now looking down at the unconscious Bane. “Lucky he was in the mood for a long and slow torture session; think he was too excited at the prospect of catching all of you and gloating about it to kill me when he had he chance. Had more aerosolised paralytics prepped for all of you, too.” Bruce nods his head at massive gas canisters tucked into the corner of the tent, all with skulls and crossbones on them. They’re pretty hard to see, on account of being hidden behind crates that held enough firepower to down the average sovereign nation, wow. 

“Taking you hostage was pretty bright, but it’s kinda amazing how no one’s figured out that it’s always a crapshoot for me, the demon spawn, and Black Bat with all this drug stuff.” Even if they had just barged in, even if Bruce hadn’t worked his way out of this mostly himself, it might not have gone totally tits-up then, which is good to know. 

They don’t talk about the concept of how torture counts as good luck, because Bruce isn’t exactly wrong, is he? “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

More from force of will than any actual motor control, Bruce heaves himself onto his feet and stays standing. “The weapons and gas-”

“Clean-up team’s on the way in. PennyOne was very explicit about getting you back to base ASAP, B, and it’s way more than I’m paid to question our highest power.” Jason tucks an arm around Bruce’s waist, and pulls Bruce’s arm over his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ve got you.”

“Yes,” Bruce says, sounding a little awed. “Yes, I think you do.”

-

Jason sees neither hide nor hair of Bruce until the next Third Thursday, but word on the street is that Alfred’s wrath and Dick pulling double-shifts meant that Bruce got some enforced time-off; a whole two weeks of downtime, wonder of wonders. He had texted to say that he had some business going on and would need to take a rain check on dinner, but it’s mostly to stop Bruce from showing up all battered and bruised.

Jason has actually been busy, though. Having an assault mounted on a Third Thursday’s a pretty grievous insult, and goes against the entire point of having it, so Jason’s been doing some housekeeping. A better shift rotation of patrolling criminals that keep a cap on how much evil can manifest on this off day, a shakedown of a couple of crime families that had helped Bane smuggle his weapons and his mercs in, a bit of a rampage in Crime Alley that reminded the people that the Red Hood’s not the sort to be ignored. He intensely injures a large number of people who really deserve it, but he keeps everyone alive because it’s supposed to be recovery time for Batman. 

He does still come by the Opera House with his usual order from the taquería, because his circadian cycle is three weeks long and he had subconsciously worked to have the night free the way he’s done consciously for well over a year now. Besides, missing this would have María José worry, and she’s had plenty to worry about after the brush with Bane’s terrorism the last TT. Jason’s sat on the lip of the massive, ostentatious golden dome, enjoying the breeze in his hair when a shadow alights in his periphery. 

It’s a strange thing, but all of them have a different texture to the darkness they shroud themselves in. It’s all to do with costume material and gait and build and posture, some indeterminable mixture of all these things, but with enough time of figuring out who’s who just from a patch of not-quite-pitch-black, it becomes as bright and loud a signature as them just shouting their names.

Bruce’s shadows fall around him like a hedge growing over a statue; a mix of organic and not, and the quick terror that manifests when they fall away and all of a sudden it’s just a not-quite-man that’s all sharp edges and shades of darkness.

Jeeze. B gets roughed around a little bit, and Jason’s gone all dramatic in his head. He doesn’t betray his thoughts, just leans back to scowl as terrifically as he can muster. “Could’ve _sworn_ I said not to come, B. Bane’s magic gas did a number on your reading comprehension too?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything in response, just plods over with a paper bag in hand. “Here,” he says, dropping it on Jason’s lap before taking a seat next to him, posture still tense. “I was on my way to pick up Korean fried chicken from a truck close by the library when we caught wind of Bane’s plans, and I ended up missing our prior engagement.”

The bag smells like it’s filled with something divine, and Jason’s diving in and already breaking into a sweat from the expectation of tongue-turning spiciness. He loves fried chicken in all their incarnations, but KFC hits something different, oh. Jason’s downed two wings and half a drumstick before situational awareness comes back in. “On the list of things you’ve done wrong by me, B, not getting me food because you were too busy thwarting a terrorist attack’s pretty low down.” 

Bruce just shrugs. “It’s a pretty long list.”

“It’s gotten shorter.” 

That gains him a look of curiosity, tinged with doubt. Jason licks his fingers, and realises this is the first time he’s actually eaten something Bruce’s brought for him. There’s probably something there to unpack, but that can wait until after he’s had his fill. He doesn’t say anything else, just waits for the inevitable question.

“How?”

Jason just shrugs, and pushes his tacos over. “I got to know you as an actual person, I guess. You make enough mistakes all by yourself, and I figured that I didn’t need to be angry with you about things that I know you didn’t mean.” Like missing a dinner date to save a city, like coming when he’s supposed to stay away, like looking ready for a fight with Jason over an absence of snacks.

Like Bruce letting the Joker live didn’t mean that he didn’t love Jason in his wholehearted, visceral way. The justice system isn’t built to handle people like Joker; Jason’s come to accept that neither is Bruce, and that’s a fact that he can either take in and accept, or not.

When push comes to shove, it’s no harder than accepting a bag of chicken.

They subside into silence; Bruce is the only human being Jason has ever met who could eat a hard-shell taco while making almost zero sound, and it’s easily the most unacceptable thing about him.

The music coming from down below is a little muted; it’ll probably take another couple of weeks before the stress of Bane’s hot nonsense cools down enough for Gothamites to go back to their wild ways, so tonight all they get is the tinny screech of some fiddles that are occasionally drowned out by one determined elderly woman on an accordion.

“Jason,” Bruce says, and that means it’s time to be serious because they’re still in their suits. Jason has a premonition of what this talk’s going to be about, and settles himself into a state of casual resignation.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, emphasising God knows what. “The…. thing, you previously brought up. Regarding your feelings.”

“Yep, I remember, thanks for bringing it up in the most awkward way possible.”

There’s a squeak of leather as Bruce clenches his fist, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the _squidge_ of a sauce-laden bit of lettuce squishing out. “I’m doing my best.” He sounds calm, even if he doesn’t look it. “Taking you to bed is out of the question, right now. But if there’s a, a better dynamic we could have because parent and child isn’t quite right, well.”

Bruce is clearly biting the inside of his cheek, and it’s a new tic, holy shit. 

Determination sets in, and he turns to look Jason full in the face because neither the Bat nor the man have _ever_ been cowards. “You have been so good to me, Jason,” he says with aching softness. “I think I want to try to be good for you.”

Jesus Lord Christ. Jason drops a chicken bone onto his lap in his haste to grapple for Bruce, to get a sticky handhold on the back of the cowl, to press their foreheads together. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, he must’ve died again without noticing and this time instead of seeing an al-Ghul on the other side, it’s just hopeless, unbearable Bruce.

He doesn’t let his thought process come out his mouth, doesn’t press in for a kiss that’s unasked for, but he does close his eyes and take in a deep, shuddering breath.

“We’ll figure it out, B.”

Bruce’s lips tip into a lopsided smile. “Thank you, Jason,” he murmurs right back, and.

Jason’s a goddamned goner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a [kinkmeme fill](https://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1802.html?thread=372490#cmt372490) but I needed to work out their reconciliation before I could get to the smut and then I just..... didn't get to the smut. I cannot emphasise enough how bad I am at writing smut ;( Absolutely feral over the concept of dom/sub powerplays with Bruce, though, and how relationships take a different tint in adulthood. Jason is a legitimate manic-millennial. 
> 
> Accepting prompts and charity commissions on my [tumblr](https://cetaceans-pls.tumblr.com/post/161779740389/commission-info-and-masterlist), where my cabin fever manifests maximally.
> 
> Hope you're all staying safe this quarantine-y season, take care!
> 
> Now complete with BONKERS GOOD cover art via the supremely excellent [vodka112](https://www.deviantart.com/vodka112) in the BTAS style. I don't know that I'll ever stop screaming at the taco bag??? God.
> 
> AND to top it off vodka decided to flex Even Harder and now you get a podfic of the slow, slow romancing of the Bat of Gotham to bring some measure of please into your life! Please let her know if you enjoyed it!


	2. Ground Down (And Now Out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year later, Dick takes Jason out for a drink; Jason takes Dick out with a secret.
> 
> Or, Jason and Bruce inadvertently reach the meet-the-family stage of their relationship. It's tough-going, but Jason's never been a quitter.

Jason nurses his beer as he surveys the quiet, pretty little bar. It’s a Friday, but with a pandemic and the first flurries of a snowstorm fucking up everyone's day/year, it’s deserted. It’s just him and the staff tonight, all of them looking like they would rather be anywhere else. 

He sighs, and takes another deep swig from his bottle. If he reaches bottom before Dick shows up, Jason’s calling it a night and he’s going to treat himself to some beef with spring onions and pineapple fried rice on his long (long) way home.

Not to pit bad bitches against each other, but Blüdhaven doesn’t have shit on Gotham and he’s already feeling weirdly homesick.

Down to the last mouthful of tepid Corona, cheapest beer available bar none given These Times, Jason foregoes breathing to just chug it all back so he can get up and get away. He doesn’t think there’s another person on Earth he’d be okay being stood up for half an hour for except for Dick, but thirty-one minutes would be just one minute too many.

The bottle clinks against the wooden table-top, and he’s fulfilled the deal he made with himself. Jason is fishing a twenty out of his wallet because nobody in the service industry is going to get away with anything less than a 200% tip under his watch when Dick slides into his seat opposite, harried and dusted with snow, cheeks pink and nose pinker.

“Sorry, Jaybird, there was an accident on 6th and Carousel ‘cos of the snow, but I needed to give this lady a lift because she’s actually in labour? Like, actively in labour, and the cabby was outside his car screaming to ask if anybody knew how to give birth in a doctor-not-mother way.” Dick pouts at the clear absence of a drink Jason should have politely ordered for him before he waves down a bartender and requests a hot coffee with a smile so bright the poor man doesn’t get a chance to up-sell their award-winning craft brews. Order made, he’s immediately back to the world’s most outlandish sorry-I’m-late story. “I took Lucille to Blüd General, but I didn’t want to leave her alone, so I went and picked up her partner who got stranded at her office.”

The coffee arrives, steaming and mud-coloured. Dick thanks the server cheerfully and waits until everyone’s a reasonable distance away before unmasking and taking a euphoric sip of sludge. “Melinda said she’ll text when the baby’s out, but I got a good feeling about things, so I’m not super worried. So that’s why I’m late, sorry, you want a plate of chips or something?”

“Jesus,” Jason says with feeling. “How the hell did a pregnant lady about to pop even get on your bike?”

It’s a more reasonable question than both _how is this the fifth lady-in-labour you’ve saved in the past year?_ and _how did you do all that and just end up half an hour late?_ , so it's what Jason goes with.

“Pillion-style, but Lucy was great at leaning into the turns. Plus I already had my snow tyres on, so it was fine.” Dick waves at the group of bored bartenders who are all staring unabashedly at them, and gestures to request another beer for Jason. “Was gonna text you, but everything was full-on for a while there. Thanks for waiting, by the way.”

He beams at Jason the way he’d beamed at the bartender, probably the way he’d beamed at Melinda and Lucille both, and Jason wants to squint at how bright he is in the soft gloom of this hipster bar. “I didn’t have anything better to do,” he says, neatly ignoring all the times he has turned Dick down to enjoy a quiet night with ratty sweatpants and cold pizza. 

Jason’s never been as much of a people person, especially compared to Dick, and it’s a testament to their relationship that a once-a-month-ish casual meetup outside the Manor is enough to nourish them both exactly the right amount. 

(A thirty minute grace period from Jason beats a dozen night-outs with any other brother, quite frankly).

Dick just smiles. “Thanks anyways. I’ve been wanting to check-in with you, I know you just wrapped up that big project last week. Everything all right?”

Oh, no wonder Dick had called him up and asked to meet a couple of weeks earlier than they usually do. Brutally dismantling the seat of operations of Black Mask’s human trafficking ring (only the South American division, because hell truly is on Earth) had gone about as bloodily as could be expected, but the ruthless decimation of villains hadn’t been as much of a concern for Jason as figuring out what to do with the people they managed to free was.

There are _some_ minor conveniences to being back in the Bat’s good books. Or to getting to a point within himself where he could acknowledge that he needed help and would ask for it, from Bruce of all people. Po-tato, pota-to, whatever. The bust months-long in the making had gone down on a Wednesday night, and by Thursday morning 362 immigrants from 4 South American countries had been allocated flats to live in, just in time for the holidays. The accommodation came complete with packs of lawyers patrolling the grounds, ready to rip off the leg of the nearest immigration officer, as visas and work permits get sorted out.

An altercation with a grenade means that Jason hasn’t really been able to feel anything on the entirety of his right side for a week now, and this second beer is probably not going to mesh well with the parade of painkillers he’s on, but getting to pistol-whip Sionis before smashing his face through plate glass means he just grins at Dick, all teeth. “Went fine. I’m feeling pretty run-down, but the rest of the year should be quiet, so I’m not worried about being overworked.” God, Corona tastes worse than piss. “Uh. How’re you doing? Job search going okay?” What are normal conversations normal people have in normal bars? “Tim keeps talking about how important it is to have your LinkedUp updated, you should… look into that.”

Dick's really been going through it, but as someone who never had a chance at normalcy, Jason has no idea how to console a man who's quit his job and is only _now_ actively questioning the point of being alive. Jason hadn't really seen a point to existing even before he met Bruce, and that's really saying something. That he's found meaning _now_ is a testament mostly to his strength of character, and definitely not to his day or night jobs. Dick's angst is deeply unrelatable, but Jason's trying his best to emphatise anyways.

Dick rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost all whites. “Jay, don’t hurt yourself trying to be supportive. So I quit my job, and dabbling as a Youtuber isn’t working out great because I found out I really, really hate being known when I don’t want to be.” Dick steals Jason’s empty bottle and starts picking at the peeling sticker. “And, uh, acrobats and circus performers aren’t in high demand in a pandemic. It’s _fine_. I could be… a fitness instructor, or something.”

There’s not a one of them who isn’t, fundamentally, emotionally-distant in some way or another. When Dick had announced that being a cop really just wasn’t worth it anymore, everyone had supported him, but when Dick had announced he was going to become a vlogger, everyone had had to try awful damn hard not to laugh. You’d be hard-pressed to find people more fiercely protective of their privacy than anyone who’s been under Bruce’s care, even if, in Dick’s case, the reality of that hadn’t sunk in until he was trying to record his first ever video and found himself completely unwilling to share a single blessed thing about himself.

Dick had shared in the family chat the unedited version of his first recording, and Jason will forever cherish the memory of Dick smiling and saying ‘Hi’ to the camera, starting his introduction before an internal switch had been tripped. God, the look on his face when Dick had started lying through his teeth about everything, pouring every ounce of earnestness he had into telling his viewers that his name is Ric (lie), he's filming in his uncle’s place in Montana (lie), and he's starting up a mindfulness channel to share his life with everybody (lie) because he’s passionate about meditation (Big Big Lie). 

That’s the sweet thing about Dick, though, how he gets an idea into his head and he’s immediately ready to jump right off the deep end. Jason looks at Dick sometimes and he'll feel a sharp, keen desire to make the world good enough for him. It’s _such_ a dumb echo of Bruce's unilateral style of care that Jason usually has to go out for a run to rid himself of this gross energy. 

He can’t up and disappear right now, so instead Jason just shrugs and kicks at Dick’s shin under the table. “You’ll figure it out. We would have made fun of you for the rest of your life anyways if you actually became an ~influencer~, so just be grateful you dodged that bullet.” 

Dick kicks him back, which means he takes it for the light-hearted jab it is. “You’re such an asshole,” he says, fondly. “How’s B, anyways? I haven’t been back since he tried to secretly hire me as his PR manager, because the only one more awkward than you ‘bout me being jobless is him.” Dick has nightmares sometimes of waking up to see Batman looming over him, an employment contract set under Dick’s hand as B tries to forge his signature. Dick is, himself, maybe not dealing with unemployment and loss of life direction all that well either, but that’s neither here nor there. “He help you out with your work?”

Jason shrugs. “Bit with the clean-up, but he didn’t approve of my workflow. You know how he is.” Dinner that night had been awkward and borderline-unpleasant, but they’ve had dozens of dinners like that at this point, so working through it wasn’t that hard on a Third Thursday.

“I really do,” Dick says with laughter in his voice. “God love him. I’m heading home for Sunday brunch this week, and I’m this close to just telling him I’m going to open up an Etsy store for Nightwing cosplay goods. How soon after that do you think his head’s gonna explode?”

Jason’s already laughing. Imagine if he made his own fortune selling verified sweaty socks right from the feet of Red Hood himself, oh. Alfred would probably despair and implore him to _at least wash them first, Master Jason!_ “To be fair, I read that superhero pyjama sales are through the roof this year. Every depressed motherfucker wants to dress like GL on the bottom while they work-zoom their life away, so you might have a chance to make it big.”

Dick eyes him knowingly. “You ‘read’ that, huh? Definitely something that happens to other people, right? You're telling me that if I look at your online purchases, it’s not gonna show half a dozen Wonder Woman booty shorts? You sure ‘bout that, Jase?”

“Shut the hell up.” Jason throws a lemon wedge at Dick, who plucks it out of the air to bite into it, relishing the ear-splitting sourness. “I’m supporting local artisans, all right? I take it back, no one’s gonna want to buy Nightwing shit, the guy is actually a massive dick.”

“Don’t be like that,” Dick cajoles, lime pip in his teeth the only bit of obvious imperfection on him. “C’mon, show me what you bought. It’s starting to get cold enough I actually need to wear pants to bed, I might as well get something nice.”

Jason pulls out his phone with a sigh. “It’s this woman based in Gotham, her kid’s a graphic designer who got laid off and now they screen-print their own designs and make sleepwear.” Christ, the secrets he finds himself telling Dick on a quiet night away from the world. “They’re all unisex and the pants,” because he has too much damn self-respect to say booty shorts, thanks, “fit pretty well.” He pulls up their civilian chat app, and sends a link to the store to Dick. 

He doesn’t expect to be greeted by the distantly familiar ‘frwooop!’ sound of a Grindr notification, and he certainly doesn’t expect it from Dick, who is famously, unflappably heterosexual. Jason blinks, because it’s insane that an adult might actually go about living their lives with their phones not on silent, so he’s probably just… imagining things.

So while Dick pats himself down to look for his phone, Jason sends strings of nonsense characters, each one coming through with a ‘frwooop’, and damn, the night’s taken a hell of a turn.

“Dick,” he says through carefully clenched teeth, because he cannot imagine any good answer for why Dick might have Jason’s message alert tone set to Grindr of all things, “what the fuck.”

Dick doesn’t seem to have noticed the brewing storm, already clicking through to the shopfront and scrolling through the options. “What, what? Is it ‘cos my phone isn’t on silent? You and Tim really need to get your heads out your asses, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to hear it when people are trying to get me.” He double-clicks on something, zooms in. “Oh, shit, the sleeping mask with the Martian Manhunter eyes are pretty cute.”

Jason reaches across the table and slams Dick’s phone to the table. It’s a miracle he’s still under tight enough control that he hasn’t smashed it, but it's a thin leash that's fraying awful fast. “Dick, why the _fuck_ is that your alert tone for me?”

There’s a taut moment where lightning’s in the air, and the seriousness must sink in because Dick carefully lets go of his phone. Slowly, Dick slumps against the back of his seat, hands on the table with his palms facing up, every inch of him as studiously non-threatening as he can make it. “I can explain, Jason,” he says calmly, “but I need you to take a couple of deep breaths for me, okay?”

This is probably the voice that calmed a woman in labour riding on a motorbike across snowed-in Bludhaven, and it’s _irritating_ how effective it is. Jason takes a deep breath in, then another, then another, until the pounding in his ears and the prickling at his neck both ease up. He lets go of Dick’s phone and leans back in his chair too, to give them both more space. There’s not the slightest hint of a wobble to his voice when he talks, which is a little incredible. “Did you think it would be funny, to slap that sound on for me? First time I told you I wasn’t straight Grindr didn’t even exist yet, so did you have to wait to make this cool joke? Haha, my brother isn’t normal, every time he texts me I get a little reminder of that and have a little laugh at how fucking weird he is?”

Shout out to Bizarro and Supes and all the Kryptonian gang; if Jason had access to Super powers while this incredibly, insatiably angry, he might destroy the entire fucking world by accident.

Dick lets him hiss all his poison out, gives him grace for a few more steady breaths, and accepts venom from Jason he would never, ever take from anybody else. “Jay,” he says once Jason’s subsided into boiling silence, “Jay, you know I would _never_ do that. Fuck,” Dick exhales like he’s just been punched. “I would never, and I think you know that too, ‘cos otherwise you would have ripped my throat out.” Dick closes his eyes and takes his own breaths, like he needs to get himself under control too. “You, uh, probably need to check in with someone, about why the worst thing is the first thing that hit you when you heard my phone.” With a tremble in his hands, like he’s barely holding on to his temper too, Dick takes a swig of lukewarm coffee. “Do you want to hear why I did it, Jason, or do we need to call this a night and get some time to cool off?”

There’s no such thing as cooling off when a rage is burning this hot; it’ll lie low like embers but then it’ll explode, because that’s just how they are. Jason shakes his head, eyes still focused on Dick’s every move. “We need to get this out here and now. What the hell, Dick.”

(If Dick thinks there's something _funny_ about how Jason is, something off and odd and not-quite-right about him, what will he think about-)

“Okay, so, you know my dating life is complicated for a bunch of reasons, but it’s never been because I couldn’t find someone I liked, right?” Dick doesn’t pause to give Jason time to interject or agree. “Babs, and Kori… I have a type, and I’ve been lucky enough to meet them even if I’m still working on how to keep them. But you, Jay, I don’t know _anything_ about who you like, or what you want. I just know that you don’t only like women, and this app,” he waves at his phone, “is good for people who have varied tastes. I thought…. If I had the sound on my phone, every time you texted me I could keep an eye out on who turns to look, see if I can spot anybody who’s got a chance of being good enough for you.” 

Dick looks up at Jason, smiling a smile that looks more like a wince. “I know you’re not a people person, Jason. Getting you to hang out with me one-on-one is a monthly miracle, and you’re always busy with your…. work stuff.” He shrugs, looking away. “It just occurred to me one day that you might…. be lonely. And this was my way of trying to help with that.” He drags a hand down his face, groaning like a dying lawnmower. “I’m sorry, it’s one of those ideas that made sense when I was on my third pint of mint chocolate chip surfing job sites at like 8:00 AM. Uhm. I might have been projecting my stress.” He groans again. “I maybe definitely was projecting. Sorry, Jason, count it as me doing it out of love?”

The tension leaves them like wind out a popped balloon, and with the screaming adrenaline working its way out of his system, Jason finds himself slumped over the table with his face in his hands. “Fuck,” he says, with feeling. “Fuck, Dick, you always have just the worst fucking ideas.” He feels the tension migraine that’s threatening to come on, because thinking your brother might be homophobic is so, so much more stressful than a showdown with a crime boss could ever be. “You’re such a goddamn idiot, but….thanks. Maybe.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and indulges in a long, slow exhale. “Sorry for jumping to conclusions,” he says, when he means _sorry for believing the absolute worst of you even after everything,_ “even though straight up you couldn’t have behaved _more_ like a low-key bigot villain even if you tried.”

“Yeah, it’s becoming clear to me right now that it’s really easy to be accidentally unkind when I’m sticking my nose into things that don’t need it.” Dick taps the tip of his perfect nose. “I feel so bad I’m even gonna give you permission to share this horrible showcase of my lack of common sense with the family.” He quiets for a second, but a second’s an eternity for a Dick Grayson. It's heavy and meaningful, and it makes Jason hold his breath. “I love you, and I wanted something nice for you. Any time I end up doing something awful, you can assume that’s why I did it, okay?”

Jason takes a long, hard look at Dick’s contrite face, that mix of guilt-shame and that hint of bloody-minded ‘I did the wrong thing for the right reasons and frankly it’s probably going to happen again’, and he couldn’t stay angry even if he tried for a thousand years, probably. He sighs, and leans over to slap Dick upside the head. “You’re a fucking dumbass,” he says, “and also you didn’t even need to bother. I’m already seeing someone.”

Dick gets this whopper of a secret, more closely guarded and more fiercely protected than anything Jason's ever held in his life, because Jason had somehow looked at a man who has had his back for most of both of his lives and assumed cruelty. It’s the law of equivalent exchange, sortof.

(When he’d thought the worst of Dick, thought Dick lower than low and scummier than scum, he had imagined Dick might do this to Bruce, too, would mock and demean him and think less of him, and for a split second Jason had been filled with _so much_ virulent, protective hatred that he had almost gone blind.

Oh, he owes Dick a hell of a lot for feeling that terribly that strongly towards him. If he were a Super, the universe might have been made to explode in that one singular second.)

He just grins when Dick gasps dramatically (of course). “What the hell, Jay!” Dick whispers excitedly. “The lack of info-sharing in this family is out of control. Who are they? Do I know them? How long have you guys been dating?”

Jason thinks about it, and then thinks about it some more. Courting-slash-active-romantic-pursuit still took longer than the length of time they’ve actually been dating, and it’s a crapshoot as to whether or not it counts. “Close to a year now,” is true any which way you interpret it.

“So it is somebody I know, but you either don’t want to tell me because you're being petty, or because you don’t want to expose your partner,” Dick observes, shrewd and thoughtful when he needs to be. “Interesting." He doesn't for a moment imply or even think that Jason is lying. "Full disclosure, I'm obsessed and I’m going to hound you till I find an answer. They make you happy, Jason? And you’re looking out for them?”

Jason nods without thinking, because that's an easy, easy truth. “We’re both trying.”

Dick sighs somewhat dreamily. “Sounds romantic as hell.”

It’s almost enough to make Jason flush, almost. “We’re trying,” he says again, because romance and kindness and a gentle touch don’t come naturally to him or to Bruce, but they really, really are doing their best.

The feeling comes in like a sudden wave in this small, chilly bar. There's an urgency in the air after he'd admitted to having a relationship he cares about; it feels important now that Jason and Bruce's hard work be acknowledged. That this dynamic they’ve ended up in that’s good for them both, that they’ve clawed their way towards and fought to keep working, should be praised and applauded and admired, because it’s what they deserve. 

It’s what Jason wants, suddenly and keenly, to get to go by the Manor and be brazen over how possessive he can get over Bruce, the freedom to kiss him at brunch and touch the curve of his wrist at dinner. He wants Dick to change his ring tone, because Jason doesn’t need Grindr and doesn’t want to need it again, either.

He wants to wield his right to sling an arm around Bruce's waist, in the home that’s seen the highest concentration of people who love him, and say _I got him and by god I’m gonna keep him._

The desire is so sharp it aches like a bad tooth in the back of the mouth. Oh, it's unbearable.

“Jason, you all right?” 

He’s startled out of his thoughts by Dick gently shaking his arm, looking concerned. Jason shakes him off, feeling a little raspy in the lungs. “Hang on a sec,” he says, and he knows he sounds ragged, but it’s not every day he’s had to consider a second coming-out to Dick, only this one’s a lot further out left field.

He pulls his phone out and pulls up his private chat with Bruce. He starts the message with the speak-no-evil monkey emoji, the agreed-upon emergency signal for the two of them guaranteeing an immediate read.

🙊 _out for dinner with Dick. I want to tell him. Can I?_

The answer comes immediately, so quick it’s clear that Bruce has already thought about this, has ruminated on the breaking of this secret and how much power it gives Jason, just Jason, to break him, has looked at the thousands of ways this could go wrong and come to this one, singular conclusion.

_I trust your judgement, Jason._

_I trust you_ , Bruce explicitly does(n’t) say. 

Jason feels his pulse in his ears and sees his heartbeat in his wrist, and it makes him want to scream. His fingers feel the size of overstuffed turkey sausages as he composes a response, barely able to see for the thoughts in his head.

_Thanks_

he texts back, and it feels wholly, utterly inadequate.

_I love you_

he adds, and feels much, much better.

He puts his phone away because odds were better than average that he would be left on read, because Bruce sure doesn’t love in words (but sure does love a lot anyways). It’s enough that the words are written down now, visible whenever either of them need a reminder. 

Jason sits up, and knows that he’s got a stupid smile on his face he doesn’t have the slightest chance of suppressing. “Okay, so, you wanted to know who I’ve been dating, right?”

Dick perks up in obvious interest, eyes shooting a glance to the pocket that holds Jason’s phone. “Holy shit, you were asking them for permission. Oh my god, yes, please, hit me with it.” 

Jason opens his mouth to fess up, but he’s stopped by Dick waving his hands wildly in front of his face. “Hang on, hang on. I just want to say that whoever it is, I’m glad they’re good for you, Jason, and I’m gonna love you no matter what, okay? No matter what.”

Jason looks at Dick, and accepts that to be whole and right and true. It makes it easy for his smile to grow wider, for his pulse to slow down to a languid, lovely crawl, for the world to feel substantially lovelier than it did two minutes ago, two hours ago, two days ago. 

Fuck, the things that love and affection can do to even the harshest of men.

Jason slinks back in his seat, folds his arms, and the best way to make this announcement comes through bright and clear.

“I’m dating your father, son.”

Dick’s scream of “WHAT?!” is loud enough to almost shatter glass, and as he blusters and splutters and drops his phone twice trying to speed dial Bruce, Jason feels a buzz that lets him know a message has come through.

He spares his phone a glance, because Dick is evidently taking his words seriously enough that he’s seeking verification (and isn’t that a hell of a relief), and it renders him almost, almost unconscious.

_And I you, Jason._

Bruce says, like this is a thing he says, and for the tenth, ten hundredth, ten-fucking-thousandth time, Jason is forced to admit (with a haze of stupid, stupid tears in his stupid, stupid eyes);

He’s a goddamned goner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really....love....the dynamic they ended up with in the first chapter..... then kuro and me got to talking about what a kick it would be to have out-and-open brujay and i just really, really wanted to imagine what that might be like. hugely inspired by this [ tiktok ](https://www.tiktok.com/@chrislorenc/video/6893594892627397894?lang=en&sender_device=pc&sender_web_id=6906144938754819586&is_from_webapp=1)that has left me deeply emotionally compromised. i never planned to write a second chapter, but i ended up wanting to figure out how jason would deal with coming out 2.0 (coming out harder), and also wanted to write soppy brujay even though bruce doesn't even show up, so here we are.
> 
> hope you like it, and i'm really thankful to have gotten into brujay this hell year of all hell years, oh man
> 
> as always, please be good to both yourself and literally everyone else. and in the likely event i don't have another fic ready in time, happy new year to everyone! on god 2021 has got to be better!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Some Things are Sacred](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945482) by [kuro49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49)
  * [[Podfic] Any Which Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616176) by [Vodka112Podfics (Vodka112)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vodka112/pseuds/Vodka112Podfics)




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